


Shiver

by Closetfic_er



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Oblivious Liam, Observant Louis, Pining Stiles, Sassy Ed, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:51:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Closetfic_er/pseuds/Closetfic_er
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry lets out another melodramatic sigh, sinking back into the couch dejectedly. A morose minute passes, Harry pensively staring into the distance as Ed sits beside him, tuning his ever-present guitar. Looking up when he’s happy with how it hums, Ed turns to Harry and bluntly states “Right then. This song’s not gonna write itself. Let’s start yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah? You’re really going to help me write a song for Liam?"</p><p>“Why not? Least then maybe I won’t have to listen to you whine about how much you love him and want to kiss him and blow him and marry him and have his babies anymore.” Ed deadpans, earning himself a half-hearted slap to the arm (mustn’t harm the lyrical genius in the room). “Maybe I’ll even help you sing it for him. For a fee of course. I accept cupcakes or PayPal. Preferably cupcakes.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shiver

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic ever...hopefully you like it! Also posted on my LJ :)
> 
> Prompt reponse to the below request over at THE GREAT LIRRY FICATHON.
> 
> Harry writes a song for the groups next album. It's a love song. For Liam. 
> 
> Or
> 
> Harry is desperately in love with Liam and doesn't know how to tell him. So he pines and sulks and writes a really sappy song about his feelings. He plays the song for Ed, who, being a good friend laughs, but then helps him write a really good song. Queue the romantic 'Say Anything'esque moment and a happy ending.

_Harry breathes in shakily, nervous but excited. Terrified yet elated; practically having heart palpitations; palms sweaty; mouth dry; brain racing. Any one of a thousand typical, clichéd sentiments could really apply to this situation, right here, right now._

_Looking to the side, he gulps noticeably as Ed gives him an encouraging smile and nod of the head, guitar in hand, ready to sing back-up. For him. Ed Sheeran’s here, at a One Direction concert, smiling at him and ready to sing back-up on a song that he’d helped Harry write, you know, just because he’s that great a friend. And because his sense of moral decency meant he couldn’t allow Harry to inflict his horrendous attempt at writing this song solo on the world. What a champ; a paragon of kindness and friendship. Really, the fans were right: Ginger Jesus indeed._

_Taking a deep breath, Harry gives himself a mental pep-talk that consists of repeated internal exclamations of “you can do this!”, “what’s the worst that could happen?”, “this’ll work, it’s got to” and “jesuspleasedon’tletmefuckthisup”. He looks out at the less-hysterical-than-usual crowd (turns out Ed’s “Harry and I’ve got a new one to play for you, written special for someone here tonight, but you need to keep it down, yeah?” actually worked. Yet more proof of Ed’s potential divinity?), says quietly “This one’s for Liam”, and gives Ed a nod to begin._  
*****  
Harry looks down the length of the couch at Liam laughing, eyes crinkled up in that adorable way of his, and feels his heart give a familiar stutter. Fuck you Payne, he laments. Fuck you and your eyes and your laugh and your face and your ridiculously fit body and your beautiful voice and your puppy dog expressions and your slightly-nerdy-yet-unbelievably-sexy aura and your face and…well, you get the picture.

See, Harry’s not afraid to admit that he’s been head-over-heels in love with one Liam Payne for what feels like an age. He can even pinpoint the exact moment when he actually first realised it. A relatively innocuous moment really, nothing earth shattering. 

The boys had all been coming over Harry’s place for breakfast when Liam had rung to ask him if he needed anything from the shops. Harry, looking in his fridge and noticing a distinct lack of juice, responded with “Erm, yeah, could you grab some juice please? I’m all out”, and then thought nothing more of it as he continued to chop up omelette ingredients. When Liam had arrived not even 10 minutes later, he’d walked straight past the dog-pile of kicking, punching, grabbing hands that was Niall, Louis and Zayn to hold out a shopping bag to Harry. Harry’d murmured a “Thanks Li” before turning back to the counter and putting the bag down, feeling Liam linger in the kitchen with him; a companionable yet silent presence. 

It was as he’d opened the bag, back turned to Liam, that he’d noticed the two bottles it held. Liam had gotten both orange juice _and_ apple juice. And not just any apple juice either: the exact brand of apple juice that Harry liked best. His heart had skipped a little and his stomach had kind of attempted to execute a barrel-roll within him (both clearly not healthy reactions to any kind of stimuli, he really should see someone about that), and he’d slowly turned to look at the older lad. And hey, had there always been that nimbus of light around the guy? Had his eyes always been the _exact_ colour of melted Swiss chocolate, the good stuff? And surely when he’d walked in his white shirt hadn’t clung to his Adonis-like chest and abs in that way, had it? Speaking of, when had Harry started labelling Liam’s physique “Adonis-like”?

“You got my juice.” He had managed to choke out, eyes twitching up from the aforementioned perfection to Liam’s face. And. Just. Ugh. How was that fair? Talk about double-dipping in the looks pool, the greedy bastard. His brain had definitely fizzled after that (another probably unhealthy reaction, should he be concerned?), and he couldn’t have managed any further conversation if he’d tried. Luckily, Liam’s lips, which had been twitching upwards in what was presumably going to be a smile that would have down-played the role of juice in Harry’s current state of epiphany (“ah, this is why I keep touching his cock on stage. And that time when Zayn had to fend me off of his hair. And the love bites. Right. Right. Wait. I’m being much calmer about this moment of self-discovery than I should be. Well done brain!”), instead twitched into a frown as the ruckus coming from the dog-pile over on the living room floor got distinctly less-friendly. Liam’d sighed and rolled his eyes, giving a quick grin before he’d exited the kitchen to prevent what sounded like bloody murder. 

Harry had been glad, really. He loved the boys. He definitely wouldn’t have wanted to deal with the awkwardness of visiting one in jail for the murder of another. It’s just, God damn it, their timing had really sucked.  
****  
And so, Harry finds himself here yet again: in the middle of an interview, trying not to let the world see how truly gone he is on his own band-mate. Of course, even if they did, even if he _literally_ had hearts shooting out of his eyes like laser beams right now, they’d all think it was for Louis. There’d be gifs up all over Tumblr, stills all over the gossip rags and a whole crop of new fanfictions based on just that interview on LiveJournal. No one would ever suspect it was for Liam. (He may have, out of curiosity, tracked the Lirry tag for a while to see if anyone had any good ideas for how he could make Liam his. He’d been very disappointed with the distinct lack of Lirry out there, very disappointed indeed. Could fans not read between the lines? Was subtlety truly lost on this generation?)

Despite his attempts to cling to stoicism, he can’t help but catalogue and file away Liam’s every movement and utterance for perusal (read: obsessing over) later. The way Liam smiles politely at the interviewer’s mundane and oft-repeated questions, his eyes not betraying even a little bit how bored he probably is. The easy, assured manner he exudes when he answers, ever the consummate professional. The way he runs a hand through his still-short hair (and fuck it all if Liam showing up with his buzz-cut to rehearsal that first time hadn’t severely challenged Harry’s “I must not jump Liam’s bones” pledge). From the looks of it, he’s sure to find some moments in there of Ziam or Niam or Lilo that will make his jaw clench which he’ll add to the ever-expanding Liam montage album that has become his very existence. And maybe, if he’s lucky, there’ll be a smile or two thrown his way to even out the utter desperation of his internal Liam-photo-slide-show.

It’s as he’s quietly memorising the way in which Liam’s tongue, lips and teeth move together as he speaks (it’s like a fucking ballet, it’s that beautiful) that the universe slaps him upside the head. Literally. Using Louis as its proxy. “Owww” he drawls, rubbing at the side of his head where Louis had smacked him, and not gently either. “What was that for Lou?”

“For spacing out. AGAIN.” Louis responds tartly, eyes sparkling a little as he smirks at Harry, gaze darting to Liam and back. Sometimes Harry thinks Louis is far too perceptive for his own good. He contemplates mentioning to Louis that he’d watched enough CSI-style TV to be pretty confident in his ability to kill someone and make it look like an accident. Or a crazed fan. Instead, Louis elbows him and says “If you’ve quite finished, you may actually want to pay attention to the next question”, smirk firmly in place. 

Harry sighs but perks his ears up a little as the interviewer, a vaguely attractive early 30s woman who’s _finally_ gotten her blushing under control, reads the next question, a fan-ask sent to the show over Twitter: “What would someone have to do to win you over ;)?”. Wink-face totally included. Harry can feel a cloud of smugness next to him as his neck almost wrenches he’s turned so fast to look down the couch, watching as Liam once again takes the lead and innocently answers a question that had been deliberately submitted for the amount of sexual innuendo it was meant to produce. He’s just so good at it, the whole butter-wouldn’t-melt thing. 

(Harry and the boys know better though. The butter would at least soften. Maybe get a little over room temperature. After all, they know each other so well, and Liam has cut loose over the last few years: tattoos, drinking, shaved head, no girlfriend, pranking paps, incredibly-handsy- relationships with four male band-mates. There’d even been that slightly-hope-giving drunken game of truth or dare where they’d all admitted that they’d definitely consider giving it a go with another guy. Even Liam. But then, of course, the others had all laughed about it, and Harry was right back to square one, pining over a modern-day Michelangelo master-piece that may or may not be a little too straight for Harry’s own good.)

Focussing, he zeroes in on Liam again, listening so hard he’s surprised his ears haven’t actually managed to undergo another stage of evolution and triple in size and effectiveness purely based on _need_. “Um, well, I like it when people make an effort to do something nice and unique for you. You know, personal, from the heart, like write them a song or a poem or just make them something. It shows you’ve really put effort in rather than just relying on money or looks. I think that’s a good way to try and win someone over.” Liam laughs, looking around a little embarrassedly as if expecting the boys or someone to shoot him down for over-sentimentality. “Pretty sure it’d work on me anyways.”

Light bulb.  
***  
Harry growls in frustration, chucking yet another scrunched up piece of paper towards the pile amassed around the little waste-basket. He doesn’t lie to himself: there’s no way it would have gone in anyway. Putting the pen down for a breather, he looks up at the ceiling, leans his chair back on two legs, and questions whether or not he may have lost his mind; admits with a shrug that it’s entirely possible.

See, the thing is, Harry’d never written a song by himself before. Let alone a love song. Especially not a love song aimed at a band-mate who also happened to be one of his best friends. But this wasn’t something he felt he could ask the other boys for help with: not Louis, because the sassy bastard would be horrendously dickish about it; not Zayn, because Zayn’d probably be only slightly less dickish than Louis, but the two of them would most certainly have an aneurism laughing about it together later; not Niall, because he’d probably just cackle his contagious Irish giggle at Harry and respond “why ya writin’ a song when ya could just tell ‘im?”; and, well, not Liam. Because, obviously. 

He calls up one of his go-to images of Liam from his internal album (avoids the images mentally-labelled “late night Liam ;)”- it’s not meant to be _that_ type of song), because everyone needs a muse, right? He remembers signing a CD against Liam’s face; pressing a Christmas bow to the little dimple in Liam’s cheek, and another to those dreamily snoggable lips.

Smiling fondly at the memory of Liam’s eyelashes gently sweeping against his cheek, his lips trembling to prevent a wide grin from dislodging the second bow, Harry tilts the chair forward again, picks up his pen, and starts to write.  
***  
Frowning slightly as he holds the last note of his epic love song, Harry looks up at Ed, prepared to receive some constructive feedback. Maybe a bit of a pep-talk, a “It’s a good start, chin up and you’ll get there”. What he doesn’t expect is to lift his eyes up just in time to see Ed lose his hard-fought battle against hysterical laughter. The ginger prick almost falls off his chair he’s snickering so hard. “Heyyyy. A bit of compassion for my plight wouldn’t go astray mate.” Harry pouts, remarking to himself that the fame had made one Edward Sheeran into a complete tosser, devoid of all decency and feeling towards his fellow man.

Ed takes at least a full two minutes to get himself under control, wiping the tears out of his eyes as a few last chortles strong-arm their way past his lips. Red on red: not a good look really. “Sorry Haz, but you do realise that you’ve smashed together bits from at least 8 different songs right there, yeah? And most of ‘em aren’t even good songs to begin with.” Ed finally offers up, a small smile that was maybe meant to mean I’m-sorry for-mocking-your-sincere-and-obviously-heart-felt-attempts-to-write-a-song-for-the-love-of-your-life, I’m-a-prick; you-know-it, I-know-it, so-let’s-move-on gracing his lips.

Harry sighs, too dejected to argue. And too cognisant of the fact that everything Ed had just said was 100% accurate. It’s just so hard to write a love song for someone when all these insensitive, selfish bastards had already gone and stolen all the good words and melodies for their own love songs. It’s just rude really. “Yeah. Yeah I know. It’s shit.” He mumbles back. “It’s just. I tried, Ed, I really did. Writing’s so hard! Well, writing something decent anyway. How do you even do it?”. His voice maybe gets even more tragic at the end there, but Ed’s a good enough guy to not smirk at it.

The corners of Ed’s mouth turn up a little bit, perhaps the first sign of compassion and sympathy for poor Harry’s situation colouring his features as he responds with “I dunno. I just write. I mean, sometimes it comes out crap, but you just gotta keep trying, you know?”.

Harry lets out another melodramatic sigh, sinking back into the couch dejectedly. A morose minute passes, Harry pensively staring into the distance as Ed sits beside him, tuning his ever-present guitar. Looking up when he’s happy with how it hums, Ed turns to Harry and bluntly states “Right then. This song’s not gonna write itself. Let’s start yeah?”, trying not to burst into fits of giggles again at the comical phases Harry’s faces goes through as he processes his words: disbelief, incredulity, relief, joy, gratitude. 

“Yeah? You’re really going to help me write a song for Liam?”

“Why not? Least then maybe I won’t have to listen to you whine about how much you love him and want to kiss him and blow him and marry him and have his babies anymore.” Ed deadpans, earning himself a half-hearted slap to the arm (mustn’t harm the lyrical genius in the room). “Maybe I’ll even help you sing it for him. For a fee of course. I accept cupcakes or PayPal. Preferably cupcakes.”

So. Turns out Ed Sheeran’s definitely _not_ a complete tosser, devoid of all decency and feeling towards his fellow man. He’s actually a pretty stand-up chap, and Harry won’t hear anyone say otherwise.  
***  
And that’s how Harry finds himself up on stage, alone but for Ed, in the middle of what was supposed to be a costume change break. 

Arranging this had _not_ been easy. Firstly, of course, he was an unknown quantity of cupcakes in debt to Ed. Secondly, he’d practically had to promise Louis eternal servitude for his assistance in distracting Liam and the other lads to enable this moment. Note to self: throwing half-written love songs in a bin is not a safe method of disposal with a nosy band-mate like Louis around. Addendum to note to self: invest in shredder/incinerator. The rest of it (sneaking Ed on stage, sweet talking the stage manager and the back-stage people into allowing him to perform an unknown song with minimal lighting, zero production and absolutely _no_ PR intervention) was easier than it should have been. He thinks it’s the power of the dimples.

Harry looks to the wings after his quiet introduction, recognising the slight commotion that heralds the arrival of a clearly shocked Liam flanked by a smirking Louis, a puzzled looking Zayn and a perpetually cheery Niall. Looking away quickly, he lets his eyelids slip shut as he begins Liam’s song.

  
 _So, I look in your direction_  
 _But you pay me no attention, do you?_  
 _I know you don't listen to me_  
 _Cos you say you see straight through me, don't you?_

_And on and on_  
 _From the moment I wake, to the moment I sleep_  
 _I'll be there by your side, just you try and stop me_  
 _I'll be waiting in line, just to see if you care_  


***  
Towards the end of the song, he makes the mistake of opening his eyes and looking to gauge the object-of-his-affection’s reaction. Instead of the slightly uncomfortable, polite expression he’d expected, Liam’s got this bloody _smile_ lighting up his face, his gaze soft as he stares directly at Harry. Harry stumbles a bit on the words, solely and purely because his unruly and uncooperative heart is trying to escape his chest via his mouth. It’s definitely not because he thinks something so sappy as that if the world ended right now, he’d be totally okay with that smile being the last thing he ever saw. Taking a breath to steady himself, he keeps his focus on Liam as he croons the last of the song.

  
_And it's you I see but you don't see me_   
_And it's you I hear so loud and so clear_   
_Sing it loud and clear_   
_I'll always be waiting for you_   


He’s sure there’s probably noise coming from the crowd right now; the fans tend to enjoy the sounds of their own screams reverberating through these venues. But all he can see is Liam, striding out onto the stage towards him, a shy little curve of his lips complimenting the slightly glittery sheen in his eyes. Liam stops in front of him, looking at his shoes coyly. “Hi” he greets.

Oh joy. Turns out he’s not suddenly gone deaf. Wins all round really. “Hi” Harry croaks back. Liam looks up from underneath his eyelashes, smile widening slightly. Fuck he’s beautiful, Harry thinks. “Don’t retch on his shoes” is his next thought, because everyone knows Harry’s all about the romance. 

Out of ridiculous habit, Harry almost angles the mic a little closer to Liam as he asks “Did you- did you write that for me?”, all tentative barely loud enough whispers and glowing eyes. 

Nothing for it really. 

“Yeah. Yes. I did. For you. Because. You. You know. You’re you. And you’re perfect. And you’re everything. To me that is. And I kind of wanted you to know. And this, well. You said you liked it when people put effort in. Real effort.” He might get a little nervous at this point, because he’s standing on a stage with a crowd largely consisting of teenage girls who like to yell out things like “Harry, give me some of your gravy!” watching as he confesses his love to Liam. Liam of the beautiful eyes and the kissable lips and the smooth voice. Liam, who’s not shied away at all from Harry and his awkward stuttering. “So I tried to write you a song to tell you how I feel but it was shit and then I sang it for Ed and he laughed but then he helped me write this one ‘cause he knows I’m in love with you and Louis knows too ‘cause I needed his help to set this up and is it really hot in here or is it just me and oh-“.

Liam’s lips on his stop the uncharacteristic rapid word vomit. 

And Harry’s not one to be overly dramatic or anything, but it’s probably the best kiss in the history of the world. Ever. All he knows is someone had better be filming this for “This is it”, because they’re sure as hell going to beat Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson for best kiss at this year’s MTV Movie Awards.


End file.
